


Is This the Way Love's Supposed to Be?

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Because Batman needs his Robins, Flashbacks, Hot Weather, Idiots in Love, M/M, Slow Burn, Stakeout in the rain, Summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24205327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: On a hot, sultry night in Metropolis, all Clark wants to do is kick back and watchButch Cassidy and the Sundance Kidwhile he enjoys a BLT. He can't get Bruce off his mind, though. First his mom is matchmaking, then there's the memories of a stakeout back in March, and even his subconscious won't drop the subject...
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	Is This the Way Love's Supposed to Be?

_Whenever I'm with him_

_Something inside_

_Starts to burning_

_And I'm filled with desire_

_Could it be a devil in me_

_Or is this the way love's supposed to be?_

_It's like a heat wave_

_Burning in my heart (It's like a heat wave)_

_\--_ _Edward Jr. Holland / Lamont Dozier / Brian Holland_

He might not feel the heat and humidity like everyone else, but Clark could still enjoy a nice cool shower that sluiced it all away at the end of a long day. Now, if he could have a quiet night with no emergencies, no crisis anywhere, he would chalk that up as a small blessing. A guy could hope, he thought and smiled to himself.

He had changed into cargo shorts and a white t-shirt, and was weighing the pros and cons of Rocky Road versus Chunky Monkey, when his mom called.

“Clark! Clark! Turn on the Weather Channel!” she told him before he could even say hello.

“What?” He found the remote and scrolled through the channels, wondering what was up with the note of hilarity in her voice.

“Just turn it on, sweetie. You’ll see.”

He found the channel, tuning in just as a woman standing by a fountain in downtown Metropolis was saying, _“Couldn’t he, like, tilt the axis of the Earth, or something?”_

What? “Mom, what is this?”

“They’re asking people on the street what they think Superman should do about this heat wave.”

Oh for… Now a guy was saying he’d heard Superman had some kind of freeze breath, so why didn’t he just fly around and blow on everybody. Another one chimed in with, _“How about if he fixed the Moon so we always had a total eclipse going? That_ bleep’s bleeping _cool.”_

“Is this real life?”

“Guess it is, sweetie,” Martha said, laughter still running through her voice. “Guess you can’t blame folks too much. It’s a bad summer.”

Growing up on a Kansas farm, Clark was only too familiar with the weather as adversary. If it wasn’t too hot, it was too cold. There was either too much rain, or not enough. And if, for one rare moment everything was exactly right, ten minutes later a thunderstorm would come roaring out of Colorado to send tornadoes tearing across the landscape.

“Yeah, I don’t blame them,” he said. He did press the mute button before he got too boggled by the suggestions people had. “You know I’d do something if I could.”

“I do know, Clark. Don’t fret about it now.” She sounded like she was rethinking calling him. “I just thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

“Mom, it’s okay. It is funny. It’s just,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure how much good it would really do if I flew around blowing on everyone.”

Now she had a smile back in her voice. “Yeah, that does call up an interesting picture. So,” she let out a breath, “how was your day?”

He told her about it, the highs and the lows, most of it pretty routine. “Just a one thing after another kind of day,” he finished up.

“Uh-huh.” His mother had a note of skepticism in her voice now. “Bet those folks you rescued off that roller coaster didn’t think it was no big whoop. We watched it down at the diner. There were some mighty big smiles when you got everybody back down on the ground.”

“Yeah, that was pretty good,” he admitted, remembering the looks of fear that had given way to relief when he arrived on the scene. Moments like that were a joy. They were a huge help whenever he longed for the days he could help people and not have it be breaking news. There was no turning back time, though, and things probably never had been as simple as he liked to remember them. “Did you have a busy day at the diner?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh, smooth,” his mother teased, a smile still in her voice. He could hear her moving around, the creak of the screen door that told him she’d gone out on the porch, and a soft patter that sounded like rain. “Well, Pete Ross came in and said he felt like changing things up, so he ordered a club sandwich instead of his usual BLT.”

He laughed now and shifted the phone to his other hand as he went back into the kitchen. “Sounds like exciting times.”

“Oh, yeah, things are hopping here all right.”

“Is it raining?”

“Little bit. Supposed to be a cold front coming down from Canada. That’ll help.”

And it would soon be August, with the end of summer looming not too far off, and harvest time coming up fast. Clark already had time scheduled to get back home and help out with that.

“So,” she was patting the porch swing, calling the dog to her, “have you talked to Bruce?”

Oh boy. “I have talked to Bruce,” he confirmed as he opened the fridge. A BLT sounded pretty good, actually, and he checked to see if he had all the fixings on hand.

Infinite patience in her voice, his mother prompted, “About?”

“About…three days ago.” He got out the bacon, checked the lettuce and tomato was fresh. “He wanted some input on the Justice League logo. The headquarters is going to look pretty snazzy when he gets it all pulled together.” Ah, there was the mayonnaise, way at the back.

“Clark Joseph Kent, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Mom…” He sat down at his small kitchen table, white Formica trimmed in red, and wondered how hard he could bang his head against it without breaking the table. “It’s not that easy.”

The pattern of rain sounded louder in the background as his mother said “Looked pretty easy when he was visiting us. Ask me, you two already went out on a couple of dates. You just need to make it official.”

Clark doubted Bruce would share that viewpoint. Then again, Bruce had been known to surprise him--on a pretty regular basis, actually. After all he hadn’t expected him to show up in Smallville to celebrate the Fourth of July with them. That had been one of a hundred things they had talked about during a stakeout on a rainy Gotham night back in March. He’d never thought Bruce would remember, let alone actually follow up.

He thought about that night a lot. He had been surprised at the invitation to join Bruce, and had been ruthless about clamping down on the thrill of excitement that shot through him. It was because his x-ray vision and super hearing made him useful, he reminded himself. Nothing more. If Bruce had occasion to stakeout an aquarium, he’d call in Arthur.

Although why Bruce would ever put an aquarium under surveillance Clark could not have said. Nor had he expected anything but the most cursory information and instructions about the current job. Sit, watch, listen, report what he picked up. He’d been proved wrong as soon as he located Bruce, parked across the street from the Iceberg Lounge.

_a rainy night in Gotham..._

Bruce popped the passenger door and waved him over. As always, decked out in designer duds, Bruce looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. Even the top buttons of his shirt were artfully undone. Clark, in jeans and a plaid shirt from the Smallville co-op, had a brief thought of being that thing that wasn’t like the others. It was there and gone in and instant, though. All Bruce had ever said was to once inquire if he’d die if he didn’t wear plaid. When Clark quipped back, “Don’t know, maybe,” he’d heard no more about it--but he had glimpsed Bruce biting down on a smile.

“Don’t tell me: you’re thinking of buying it,” he said, looking over at the night club. Until recently the place had been the hottest spot in Gotham, and you had to be a Bruce Wayne or part of his entourage to get inside. Now, with Oswald Cobblepot locked up in Arkham--again--it was shut up and dark.

“Funny,” Bruce grumbled. “Is anything going on over there?”

As Clark checked, Bruce told him about information he’d turned up that Two-Face--Harvey Dent--might surface at the club to muscle in on what was left of the Penguin’s operation. That was unexpected. He had gathered Harvey Dent was an especially sensitive subject, and one that Bruce didn’t share easily. He wanted to read volumes into Bruce letting him in on this. Best to pare that down to Cliff Notes, he suspected.

“It’s quiet,” he reported, completing a scan of the club. “No signs of life to speak of.”

Bruce canted him a look, eyebrows raised. “To speak of?”

Clark shrugged, “Couple of rats in the kitchens.”

“Four-legged variety?”

“Yep.”

“Hhn. Health Department gave it a passing score on its last inspection.”

“And of course there’s no corruption in Gotham.”

Bruce’s only comeback was a grumpy look. He relaxed back into the driver’s seat and reached for one of two cups of coffee. He jerked his chin at the other one. “That’s yours, if you want it.”

Clark nodded his thanks and reached for it. He took a sip, savoring the flavor. Smooth and rich, not as sweet as he usually took it, but with plenty of cream. “It’s good.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Clark smiled and took another drink, skewed in his seat so he could watch Bruce and keep on the eye on the club. “Do you do this a lot? Just sit and watch?”

“That is the definition of a stakeout.” Bruce took a long drink of his coffee, to all appearances relishing every drop like an elixir of life. Every drop that was likely strong enough to peel paint, and untouched by any taint of cream or sugar. Clark didn’t know how he did it.

He also didn’t understand his sudden fixation with that glimpse of Bruce’s throat, with watching the muscles work as he swallowed. Well, that was the story he was sticking with anyway.

There wasn’t anything sudden about it, either, if he _was_ being honest. Clark had been struck by him that first night, at the library gala. Perry had meant the red carpet assignment to be a reprimand, and Clark had felt it. Bored out of his mind and chafing to be anywhere else, he had been ready to provoke more wrath from Perry when a sleek Aston Martin pulled up. Everything changed the instant Bruce got out of that car. Clark’s attention had perked right up and been riveted on the newcomer, the other man’s charisma sparking the atmosphere. It had called to Clark so strongly that, even without the Gotham connection, he felt he still would have sought Bruce out in the crowd.

He thought about that night sometimes. Now and then. Wondered about the what-ifs. Impossible to know if anything could have played out differently, let alone if it would have changed anything. What mattered was they were here, now, on this rainy night in Gotham, and this second chance eclipsed all the what-ifs. He wouldn’t trade this for a Pulitzer.

“Something funny?”

Clark dialed down his smile and shook his head. “Nope.”

“Hhn.” Bruce eyed him with a flicker of suspicion and set his cup back in its holder “It’s a longshot Harvey will show up,” he said, shifting in his seat. “The last solid intel on him was that he’d gone to ground over in Bludhaven.”

Clark nodded, careful not to betray any surprise that the conversation had come back to Harvey Dent. Maybe he wasn’t meant to contribute anything, just be a sounding board. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided. “You’ve known him awhile.” 

Bruce’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. Nothing else betrayed any sign of tension. Seconds ticked by and Clark was ready to accept that there would be no reply, when Bruce’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and he eased back in his seat. “We go back,” he admitted. “Used to paint the town together.”

Nostalgia whispered across Bruce’s face, caught in a wistful smile as he spoke. Clark knew the facts. How Handsome Harvey Dent, Gotham’s dynamic, young district attorney brought mob boss Sal Maroni to trial, and how Maroni retaliated by splashing acid in Dent’s face, scarring him physically. How the scars went much deeper, his mind turning on him so that he emerged as Two-Face, flipping a coin to decide if someone lived or died today.

Those were the facts, stark and brutal. Clark doubted they came close to conveying the impact of the tragedy on those who had cared for Harvey Dent.

Offering his sympathy was feeble, he knew, but he had to say something. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce shrugged it off, tried to anyway. “It’s a long time ago now.”

“And you’re supposed to be over it?”

“So I’m told.”

Not by anyone who really knew him, Clark would bet. Not by anyone who had experienced the loss of a loved one. Almost twenty years had passed and he still felt the ache of his father’s death at unexpected times--while working on their old tractor, or watching Patrick Mahomes throw a game-winning touchdown for the Chiefs. He didn’t know how to begin to mourn for Krypton, for the mother and father he’d never know. One of his secrets was that he even grieved for Zod, for lost chances and what could have been if only Zod hadn’t been hellbent on annihilating all life on Earth.

Time did heal, but the memories were never far from the surface. 

“Could you have saved him?”

Bruce sighed, fingers tapping on the steering as he aimed a pensive stare through the windshield. “Maybe not. I’ll never know for certain.”

Since he’d made it this far, Clark edged out a bit further. “Could you have guessed he’d become Two-Face?”

Bruce shook his head. “I knew he had some...anxieties, that he had that coin flipping fixation.” His hands flexed on the steering wheel. “Nothing that prepared me for Two-Face.”

“But you beat yourself up about it anyway.”

Bruce offered him a wry smile. “He’s my friend.”

Clark nodded. He didn’t miss the present tense wording, nor was he surprised by it. Not anymore. The contrast between when they believed the worst of each other and now, when they could sit and talk like this, verged on the surreal at times. 

He shifted around in his seat and took another drink of coffee, starting to feel a buzz of his own anxiety. It had been there since he came back, a creeping unease that whispered the walls were too close and confining even in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen. Distractions helped, and he reached over to scrub at the fogged up windshield, scanning up and down the street.

“Something?” Bruce asked, tensing as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

“No.” Clark shook his head, relaxed back into his seat. “Everything’s still quiet.”

Bruce gave a sharp nod, as if confirming something to himself. “I don’t think he’ll show,” he said, half to himself. Difficult to be sure if relief or disappointment threaded through the words. “We’ll give it a few more minutes.”

“Okay.” Clark watched drizzling drops of rain slither down the windshield, that random twinge of claustrophobia easing away as he concentrated on absorbing the cozy intimacy of the setting. That was something else it would be best not to dwell on, and he scrambled for a new topic, prompted by a comment Barry had made in passing the other day. “So did Diana and Alfred really do the tango when you took down the Jade Jaguars?”

Bruce scootched around, eyeing him. “Someone’s been telling tales, I see.”

“Was it meant to be a secret?”

“Apparently not.” Bruce took another sip of coffee, pulled a face and put the cup down. “It was the foxtrot, not the tango, and it was part of their cover, not a celebration of the takedown…”

“Do you think Alfred would ever write his memoirs?” Clark asked a while later, still lingering on the images Bruce had verbally painted. Alfred, playing the part of a 007-style crime lord to scary perfection, Diana as his trophy wife, Bruce as her chauffer-slash-bodyguard, and Barry in the roll of dissolute grandson. All of it a coordinated sting to infiltrate the Jade Jaguars and bring the gang of international jewel and art thieves to justice. Clark was sorry he’d missed it. Not that joining up with Arthur and Victor to go after pirates operating out of Corto Maltese hadn’t been important too. But it wasn’t exactly champagne cocktails and foxtrots. 

“I really don’t think so,” Bruce said. “But you can always ask him.”

“I might. He’s had quite a life.” Soldier, actor, multitasking butler extraordinaire. “He met your parents when he was still with the SAS?”

“Yep. Dad was with Doctors Without Borders in Kahndag, and Alfred came in with shrapnel wounds. My mother was there heading up a U.N. mission to distribute food and other aid to refugees.” 

“Love at first sight? Your folks, I mean.”

One corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Not exactly, not according to Alfred. He always said they put him in mind of Benedick and Beatrice. They knew each other but I’ve gathered neither was impressed with the other, or so they claimed.”

Clark smiled, enjoying the second hand memory. He watched Bruce take another drink of coffee, pull another face, and offered, “If it’s cold I could probably warm it up for you.”

Head tilted like he was considering it, Bruce shook his head. “No, thanks. Anyway, yeah, that’s how they met Alfred. Dad said if Alfred ever found himself in Gotham to come look him up. Few years later, Alfred was on tour with a Shakespeare rep company that suddenly went bankrupt and found itself stranded in Gotham. He remembered my father, gave him a call to see if he had any suggestions about what they could do, and they tracked down the manager who had stolen the money and left the company high and dry.”

“And the rest is history?”

“Guess so. It’s something anyway. Listen,” Bruce gave him a inquisitive look, “can I ask _you_ something?”

Clark didn’t gulp, but he did brace himself. “Sure. What?”

“How the hell didn’t you know you know you could fly?”

Oh, that. Clark bounced his knee and shrugged, not sure why he felt defensive all of a sudden. “How would I have had occasion to find out? Jump off the barn, flap my arms, and see what happened?”

“If you knew you wouldn’t be hurt? Absolutely.”

“That’s what you would’ve done?” 

“In the interest of thoroughly investigating an anomaly?” Bruce’s tone carried a supercilious note that Clark didn’t entirely appreciate. “In a heartbeat.”

Clark also wasn’t sure how he felt about being labeled an anomaly, but decided to let it go for now. “Yeah, well, my brain didn’t go there.” He bounced his knee some more, debating whether to make a confession. It might sound like he was bragging or showing off. “It’s not like I never tested my limits. My dad kept a scrapbook where he charted everything, in fact. Anyway,” he hurried on when Bruce looked a little too interested in that, “we went to the Grand Canyon one year and I jumped across its widest point just to see if I could.”

Bruce’’s eyebrows went up. “Its widest point is eighteen miles.”

“Yep.”

“You made it?”

“Oh yeah,” he couldn’t quite keep a note of pride out of his voice and reminiscent smile. The sense of exhilaration had blown him away. If he had gone more literally airborne for a moment, it hadn’t been enough to register as anything but some extra oomph to his leap.

“What did your parents think?”

“I was grounded for a month.” He looked over in time to catch Bruce smiling, like he was picturing it and picking up on Clark’s enjoyment. 

“Wow,” Bruce drawled, “Clark Kent, rebel daredevil. Worth it?”

“Oh yeah.”

Bruce snorted, shifting around again to look over the dark nightclub. “Hhn. Guess there’s more to that Norman Rockwell hayseed act after all.”

Clark gave him a hard stare. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not. Anyway, what have you got against Norman Rockwell?” He wasn’t a big fan himself, but he’d take a Rockwell over an Andy Warhol Campbell Soup painting any day of the week.

Head tilted, Bruce gave a shrug, something in the set of his jaw making Clark think he was being deliberating provoking. “I’m just not big on fantasy.”

A grumpy _‘hhn’_ danced on the tip of his tongue, but Clark bit it back. “So it’s your contention that world doesn’t exist?”

“Oh, I’m sure it does as a facade. Scratch the pretty surface and there’s a whole lot of brutal and ugly underneath.”

“No different from Gotham?”

“Completely different from Gotham. We’re honest about it here.”

Clark let that slide, moved to propose something. “Well, how about this? You come to Smallville for the Fourth of July, and if you can uncover a cesspool of corruption and moral decay I will write it up and pitch it to Perry as a big exposé.” He spread his hands out as though framing a headline. “HIJINKS IN THE HEARTLAND.”

Bruce snorted. “Hijinks?”

“Yep. You know--cow tipping, snipe hunting, pornograpic crop circles, rampant bribery at the state fair pie eating content--”

Bruce held up a hand to stop him. “I get the picture.”

“I’m not kidding about the pie eating contest. That gets ruthless.” Actually he wasn’t kidding about the pornographic crop circle, either. His folks had explained it to him when word started getting around town, about how Lana’s dad was going through some things, and how getting liquored up and then climbing on your tractor never led to anything good. Mr. Lang was said to be sober as judge these days, but the story lingered on in local lore.

Bruce shook his head, scanning the empty street. The rain had stopped and left the wet pavement lit with the neon glow of the signs. Fingers drumming on the steering wheel again, he let out a quiet sigh before relaxing back in his seat. “So what’s so amazing about a Smallville Fourth of July? Believe it or not, we do actually celebrate in Gotham.”

“Well, for one thing, in Smallville we don’t get zombies or the Joker or Ra’s al Ghul crashing the fireworks.”

Surprisingly, Bruce conceded that point with another head tilt. “So I’ll discover the error of my big city ways and be spiritually revived by the cornball wonders of small town America? Pretty sure I saw a Hallmark movie like that.”

“Mock all you like. Come see for yourself. See if you can debunk it all.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“I just might.”

“And like you’ve ever watched a Hallmark movie.”

“Now who’s mocking? I’ll have you know--”

Clark put up a hand to shush him. “Shh.” 

Instantly alert, Bruce shot him a look. “What?”

Concentrating, filtering, Clark shook his head. “Maybe nothing.” He leaned forward, glasses tipped down as he swept the area. “There’s some cats in an alley, and an overturned trashcan.” That could have been it, although he’d swear there had been another sound. No, there it was again! “The jewelry store,” he jerked his chin at the shop just up the street. “Somebody’s trying to break in.” Right on cue, the air split with the scream of an alarm going off.

“How many involved?”

“Thre--no, two, the other one’s in pursuit.”

Bruce shot him another look, frowning. “Night watchman?”

“No,” Clark drew out the single syllable as he tried to sort through the images. “I don’t think so.” The one in pursuit of the robbers was armed--was that a helmet?--and… Clark threw a look at Bruce, startled by the bat he’d seen emblazoned on the vigilante’s chest. “I think it’s one of yours.”

Blowing out a breath, Bruce sank back in his seat, looking equal parts exasperated and gratified. 

“I could--” Clark started.

“No,” Bruce cut him off, “hold on a--”

Simultaneously a paneled van came tearing around the corner, the glass windows of the jewelry store burst outward, and two would-be thieves in ski masks flew out of there, charging for the van with the helmeted vigilante right on their tail. Spotting their car, the vigilante veered off, yanked the backdoor open and piled inside, roaring, “C’mon, Bruce! After that van! Floor it!”

To Clark’s everlasting astonishment, Bruce floored it.

Clark thought he had first-hand knowledge of Bruce’s driving skills, and a rough idea of what a car chase with him at the wheel would be like. His assumptions had been all wrong. They had not, for instance, included him hanging onto the dashboard for dear life as they raced down rain-slick streets and took corners on what felt like two wheels. The exhilarating terror ended when several squad cars of Gotham’s finest, sirens shrieking, converged on the scene, and Bruce sent the car rocketing down an alley to get away from the scene. 

“Well--dang,” the helmeted vigilante drawled, slumping in the back seat as Bruce brought the car to a stop beside a warehouse on the waterfront. “I almost had ‘em.”

Skewed around in his seat, Bruce asked, “Who are we talking about?”

“The Mambo Squad,” the other said from the backseat, busy holtering his guns. “Think they got it from one of those name generators on the Internet. They won’t be on your batdar yet.” The helmet came off next and a gloved hand reached up to comb through a shock of dark hair set off with a broad white streak. 

Clark nodded to himself. He’d had an idea that’s who this was. Sharp, inquisitive blue eyes were sizing him as well, before they sent a questioning look Bruce’s way.

Bruce made a grumbling sound, but said, “Jason, this is Clark Kent--Clark, this is my second oldest, Jason Todd.” 

Jason snorted but only said, “Pleased to meet you.” A lightbulb appeared to go off right about then. “Wait--Clark Kent? Whoa.” Jason regarded him with even more interest now, and Clark braced himself for questions about Superman, not sure how Bruce would want to play this. What Jason said, however, was, “ _He’s_ the one? The one Dick says you have a--”

“An appointment with to do an exclusive interview,” Bruce ground out as he started up the car again.

Jason snorted again. “Yeah, right.”

Since Clark knew for a fact there was no such appointment, he had to conclude something was up. What had Dick Grayson been saying? Bruce’s oldest had turned up in Metropolis a few weeks back as Nightwing, with the claim he was following up a lead from Bludhaven. Plausible enough, and yet Clark had gotten the idea the real mission was that Dick wanted to meet him--or Superman, anyway. That was a harder call to make. Bruce, arriving not long after, had given credence to that impression by appearing mortified on his protégé’ behalf. Now here was the other one, Jason Todd, appearing to be amused over something while Bruce grumbled and shot warning glares at the rearview mirror.

Mystified, and preferring to deflect the conversation, Clark said, “You’re the one who disappeared for a year?”

Something guarded came into Jason’s eyes. “Yeah, that is the story we put out there. Guess you know something about that. We should compare notes sometimes.”

Bruce sighed, shoulders slumping. All he said was, “Jay,” but there was a massive and complex degree of emotion packed in there.

Jason blew out a breath, gaze trained out the window. All he said was, “Yeah,” in a matching tone.

Oh, there was an undercurrent running there all right. None of his business, and this wasn’t remotely the time or place to unpack anything. That Bruce had been forthcoming about Harvey Dent, and agreeable to conversation beyond a _hhn_ here and there was an event rare as Halley’s Comet, and probably on a similar schedule.

_a sultry summer night in Metropolis…_

Turned out he was wrong about that, Clark mused as he said goodnight to his mom. By now, about the only thing he was certain of where Bruce was concerned was that there would always be another surprise to discover. 

They hadn’t talked about Jason that night, but Bruce had brought it up of his accord during that Fourth of July visit. Clark thought about that weekend a lot, too, and wondered if his mom was right. There had been a time or two when he’d thought… 

He shook his head and concentrated on making his sandwich. The inclination to let wishful thinking take hold and run away with his imagination was always lurking at the back of his mind. What he and Bruce had, what they had put together after starting out on the wrongest foot ever, was amazing. It was enough. 

Content with that, certain it was for the best, he took his sandwich and a glass of iced tea over to the couch and slouched down there comfortably, scrolling through the channels for something to take his mind off things that couldn’t be.

***

_“Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness wakes and stirs imagination…”_

Clark started awake, the tendrils of a disturbing dream receding as he tried to locate reality. Bruce had been there, sexy as sin in a tuxedo that fit like a glove, shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging loose, a smile on his lips that would have made the Mona Lisa feel like an amateur. They were in a nightclub, like something out of an old, old movie, and Bruce was just lounging there, beckoning… Beckoning Clark to what?

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and wanted to curse the dream for ending right when things were getting interesting.

And why was _Phantom of the Opera_ on? He’d been watching _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ when he must have dozed off.

He turned off the television and relaxed back into the couch, content to just be for a moment. It was so quiet, no sound beyond the soft whirr of a fan as it oscillated over on the fridge. And yes, it struck him there was something off about that, but he couldn’t rouse himself to care about it at the moment.

There was a faint tickle at the back of his mind that he should be concerned but he didn’t pursue it. Much better, he decided, to rest here and let his eyes drift shut. Maybe he could find his way back to that dream and find out what happened next. 

A thump from his balcony scattered that plan, and he sat up, taking in the curtains that billowed out even though there was no breeze. There was heat lightning, though, sizzling in the night sky. In one flash, a figure was illuminated, crouched on the balcony rail. A cowled figure, all in black, cape streaming out behind him.

“Bruce…?”

As if that one, baffled whisper was a cue, the figure sprang forward, into the room. Between one blink of an eye and the next, gauntleted hands cupped Clark’s face and lips came down on his--

And he woke up, staring around the room, lost between dream and reality for a long moment. Details came into focus one by one. Butch and Sundance were still on the television, about to fade into history down in Bolivia. The Metropolis night was full of sound. There was some heat lightning, but there were no curtains billowing in a non-existent breeze. No curtains at all, in fact, just a set of blinds over the glass-paned door that let out onto the balcony. And definitely no Batman.

Breath whooshing out of him, Clark sank into the couch again, something running through his mind about dreams within dreams, but fairly certain he was awake for real this time. 

Another moment and he got up, taking his plate and glass to the kitchen, and picking his phone up from the table. What was he going to do, though? Call his mom, call Lois, and ask what they thought was going on with him? 

Anyway, he knew the source of the problem. It was right over there, across the bay in Gotham, he thought as he opened the door and stepped out on the postage stamp balcony. More lightning lit up the air and he wondered where Bruce was right now, what he was doing. He could locate him. All he had to do was filter out everything else and zero in on his heartbeat. And if he did…?

Was it time to finally out?

***

Peeled out of his suit, bits of it dropped on the way to the shower, Bruce braced his hands against the wall as the water sluiced over him. He could have stayed in tonight. No one was getting up to any kind of shenanigans right now.

It was go out on patrol or sit at home and languish, thoughts forever circling back to Clark.

Head bowed under the cool spray, he tried to banish every thought, every image of Clark that sprang to mind. Yes, _that_ one in particular: Clark coming out of the swimming hole near the farm, dripping wet and grinning at him like he had no idea what he was doing to Bruce. The damn hayseed hadn’t even been naked. Which, in retrospect, was something to be thankful for, as Bruce believed _that_ vision probably would have killed him on the spot.

If only that’s all it was--lust. He could deal with that. 

This, though, these damn feelings Clark stirred up… What was he supposed to do about that? How in hell had he wound up here?

**Author's Note:**

> Never have I so struggled to find a title for a fic. :phew: 
> 
> Oh, yes, and this was written primarily because a certain scene involving Batman on the balcony has been in my head since forever, or at least since I started writing these two, and whee! Here it at last. There is more of that kind of thing to look forward to in the concluding chapter, because "nothing is forgotten, nothing is ever forgotten." (™ Robin of Sherwood)


End file.
